


Clean and Remade

by fadagaski



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Cleaning Each Other, Cunnilingus, F/M, Frottage, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Homemade Soap, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Max and Furiosa wash each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean and Remade

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from jkit45 on tumblr. Better late than never, right?

Someone has been in their room while they were gone. Furiosa knows this from a myriad of tiny details: the doorknob slightly off centre, the thinning rug a little askew, the one lopsided stool nudged aside.

Also, there is a package on their bed. 

It's wrapped in cream muslin, tied with long grass woven together to make a fucking bow that glows luminous green in the dim room, a welcome splash of colour after days spent in the black black black of Bullet Farm.

Max shuffles through the door behind her, kicks it closed with a heavy boot. Furiosa turns at the sound of water sloshing. He freezes when he catches sight of her furrowed brow.

“The Dag gave it to me,” he says defensively, eyes flicking between the jug in his hands and her face. It's been a long few days and she has been testy, skin crawling with dirt and lice and shaded malice, and the angrier she got, the more skittish and feral Max became. 

But she's here now – _home_ , now. She shakes her shoulders out, huffs a sigh, can't quite manage a smile but – Max knows. Max always knows.

“She left us this too,” Furiosa says with a jerk of her head at the bed and its little surprise. Max's eyebrows raise towards his hairline. They both stare at it like it's a live grenade rolled into the arena.

“You gonna open it?” Max asks.

She almost says 'no'. Furiosa can take a guess at what's inside, and she knows what the Dag is thinking, but she _hates_ being manipulated. She's spent three days trying to out-manipulate men half-mad with lead poisoning. She's tired.

Max is still stood by the door, water jug in hand, watching her. He won't move until she does. 

Sighing, Furiosa picks up the package. Max puts the jug on the scuffed workbench and stands at her shoulder. She makes short work of the bow – rips it off, actually, spite making her vicious – and, yep, there's the Dag's newest soapy experiment.

It's a hard white lump swirled with pale green. She rubs it with her thumb. It feels smooth and kind of slick.

She sniffs it hesitantly. “Not bad,” she decides. It's a scent she doesn't recognise, hard to describe, a little like water and a little not. She lifts it to Max's nose.

“Huh,” he says, and actually _smiles_. “Coconut.”

“Those hairy brown things?” 

“Mmm.”

She looks at the little bar of soap again. The coconuts are new – a gift from a whole tribe of people come all the way from Sinny in the east to the mythical Citadel. 

“And you can eat this?” she asks. 

“Well, not _this_ ,” Max says, “but you can eat the flesh. Tastes good. Cool.”

“Huh.” 

The soap is actually starting to melt a little in her hand, the white dripping off like water, soaking into the muslin. Furiosa puts it on the workbench next to the jug, smears her thumb against her fingers. 

Max's head comes to rest against hers. He is warm, so warm, pulsing heat like a rock under the desert sun. She can feel the stress leaching out of her, that hard knot behind her sternum unwinding. He lays one big hand over the back of her neck and shares breath with her and – yes, they're home. 

“Come on then,” she capitulates – damn the Dag anyway – as she pulls away. Strips off her arm, shucks her boots, listens to the domestic sounds of Max stowing his shotgun and revolver. 

Once, this had been new. They'd never really spoken about it – as with everything, since the moment they faced down over a clutch of women held at gunpoint, it's always been body language and synchronicity. Max had come back. Max had moved in. Max had held her and kissed her and touched her in places no man had touched in fifteen years, and she – 

She encouraged him. Touched him back. Felt the sharp jagged edges of his broken pieces and flung herself on them, and he had not cut her.

Now she kicks her boots next to his, hangs her arm up by his brace. They brush past and around each other in the small room. 

Now she faces him, naked and stained and unafraid. He holds the jug in his hand. “Who first?” he asks.

“You.”

He offers her the jug. 

Water isn't so ample that they can be wasteful, with the thousands crowding the mesas and more pouring in every day. Furiosa dips the muslin enough to wet it, cool water trickling down her arm. The soap is half-melted into the fabric already; she slides the rest of the bar onto the workbench.

She sets to scrubbing at Max's bare skin, rough how he likes it. Chest, then stomach – soaks the cloth again, adds more soap – follows the line of his spine to his shoulders. A groan rumbles in his throat as she kneads the muscles corded up his neck. She's more gentle with his face, rubs the dirt out with tiny circular motions, swipes along the prickly line of his jaw. His eyes stay closed the whole time.

All around them wafts the clean smell of clear coconut and green aloe. 

She crouches – never kneels – to scrub at his legs. Max places a supporting hand on the workbench – never on her head – and turns when she nudges him. Desert dust gets everywhere, even under thick pants, paints lines of rust at the sweaty creases of hips and knees and groin.

Only a few wet spots darken the floor around Max's feet. Sweat beading on her blackened forehead, Furiosa nods to herself, creaks upright, drops the muslin into the water. He is clean. 

She feels clean too, already, sweat sloughing off dirt and frustration. It feels good to do something for someone else, something that isn't fighting and hurting and bleeding. 

Max fishes out the cloth – a little worse for wear at this point – and squeezes out the excess water. Furiosa loves to see the muscles bunch in his forearm. He mops up the last of the soap sitting in its oily puddle and works it into the woven muslin. Furiosa stands, patient, and breathes clean air. 

When Max steps close, his skin is golden and smells of coconut. He radiates heat, eyes dark with it. She can't _not_ notice his cock rising to nudge at her thigh, just a little. It makes her smile, just a little. She doesn't move. 

Max always touches her gently, always checks her expression before laying hands on her. She thinks maybe he's trying to make up for that first fight, rolling around in the sand, vicious elbows and merciless fists. She lets him, because it feels good, and it makes him feel good, and there's been so little goodness in their lives. 

He washes her with meticulous attention to detail. Starts with her face, wiping away axle grease and sweat, rinses the cloth before smoothing it over her eyes, down the sunburnt bridge of her nose, across her mouth. He is centimetres away, lips red and plush, and Furiosa wants to kiss him, so she does. 

It is the liberties she takes _now_ that make it different to _then_. 

His mouth is soft, giving, and when she licks at the seam of his lips they part to reveal wet heat. He tastes pure like water. His hand folds over her hip, pulls her close, his cock a line of delicious fire climbing up her belly. Furiosa sighs into him, tilts her head, tongue gliding over his. Little sparks of pleasure ignite at the base of her spine, kindling low. 

Max pulls away, presses a closed kiss to her chasing mouth after her disgruntled moan. He lifts the ragged cloth. “I'll be quick,” he says, lips quirked into a small smile.

Furiosa knocks her forehead against his, half-blessing, half-curse.

Max never says anything he doesn't mean. True to his word, he soaps up one last time and runs the slick cloth in broad, soothing strokes over her neck, her shoulders, her arms, back, breasts – leaves a chilly trail of fire everywhere he touches, hot wet kisses planted like seeds in the aftermath. 

He kneels to wipe dust from her belly, thighs, calves, quick efficient stripes. He uses one hand to steady her; Furiosa can feel herself shaking, and it's more than just air on damp skin.

When he is done, he lays the cloth to one side and cups the backs of her knees. One hand is cooler than the other. His head comes to rest just over her pubic bone, so close to the hot core of her it makes her mouth dry. She strokes her fingers through his hair. He breathes in and out, deep sucking lungfuls, and she knows he is smelling her over the coconut and aloe. She shudders.

It's not a surprise when he pushes her sideways – no force, more like a suggestion without words – to sit on the lip of the workbench. The wood is hard under her ass, but it takes the weight off her feet, allows Max to scoot between her legs, shoulders nudging them apart, hands curled around her calves. When he looks up at her, his eyes are dark with want, but he waits. He always waits. 

She pulls him in. 

Max noses through her dark wiry hair, scattering kisses haphazardly. Hands skate up the outside of her thighs; goosebumps shiver in their wake. He shuffles a little closer as his fingers tease open her lower lips. His breath is hot on her swollen flesh. 

The one thing that can be said about Max is that his every action is completed with total commitment. No time wasted, he licks a broad stripe from back to front that has Furiosa gasping, head tipping back. It's devastating the way he grinds his tongue against her clit. Thrumming pleasure rockets through her core. She slides her fingers into his hair, holds him close, rolls her hips into the pressure as much as she can. Moans and whimpers break past her reserve. He hums against her flesh and the buzz escalates, salty wetness dripping from her, down her trembling thighs and over his face. His fingers nudge at her opening; she widens her legs, tilts back to accommodate him, groans when two slip right inside and curl. 

He purses his lips on her clit and sucks hard and Furiosa comes with a yell. 

She's still twitching with aftershocks, coaxed along by Max's insistent fingers, when he levers to his feet, stretches on tiptoe to meet her mouth, smearing her flavour messily between the two of them. His cock slides over her thigh, blisteringly hot; she wraps her hand around it, gives a firm tug that has him muffling a whimper into her collarbone. 

“Come to bed,” she murmurs in his ear, squeezes her fingers for added punctuation. Max nods shakily. 

He helps her off the workbench and she walks him backwards, mouths fused and hands wandering, stroking, caressing. His legs hit the bed and he sinks down, trailing lips over her breasts and belly as he goes. Wrapping his arms around her hips, Max buries his face in her thatch of curly hair, breathes so deep Furiosa shivers all over. 

“Wider,” Max grunts, nosing along the crease of her groin. She obliges, huffs a shaky sigh as he dives right in, fingers spreading her lips so he can lave at her clit once more. He has to duck his head for the right angle, and Furiosa balances herself one-handed on his shoulder, but it's worth it to hear the obscene wet sounds of his tongue circling her flesh, his little grunts of effort and satisfaction as she shivers around him. The familiar burn trembles in her thighs, her belly, pulsing out from her core, makes it difficult to stay upright. When she comes it's with a hiss, the pleasure skirting the line of too much. 

Max looks up with pupils blown wide. His fingers knead absently at the flesh of her ass as he licks his lips. Now she is dizzy with it, nerves firing and blood singing in her veins. She bends to taste herself on him, even more potent than before, and some deep part of her throbs with need. 

“Lay down,” she says, nudging him with her half-arm. He scoots back, keeps a hand on her thigh as she kneels, slings one leg over his hip. Settles against him, cock riding the seam of her inner lips, and they both groan. 

“Furiosa,” he moans, rolling his hips. His cock slides over her clit and Furiosa sucks in a shocked breath and this, this is how she wants him to come for her. She grinds down against him, listens to his stuttery gasp, and like always, he picks up her cues. They rock together, wet heat and the slick slide of skin, every thrust of his hips sparking through Furiosa's nerves like lightning. His fingers flex into the muscle of her thighs. She watches the tension build in his face: bitten lips and clenched eyes and tendons like wires down his neck as he thrusts against her. 

He comes with a choked cry, seed spilling messily over his belly. Furiosa closes her eyes, concentrates; she was so caught up watching Max that her third orgasm has dimmed, but it's there, she can feel it. 

Readjusting her position, she pinches her knees tight to Max's sides and grinds hard on his spent cock, hears him groaning but keeps going, feels the sharp edge of it bearing down on her, white hot sparks crackling from her clit outwards. She's sweating hard, bouncing a little in Max's lap, panting, and she's so close she can taste it. Then Max surprises her, reaching out to tweak her nipples and that's it, shot of nitro to the engine and she's coming again, hard and a little hurting. 

After that, her legs won't take the strain anymore, and she collapses in a breathless heap next to Max. He rolls onto his side, wraps an arm over her and hauls her close. His come smears onto her belly, cooling and slick and sort of gross, but she holds him too, presses kisses to his cheeks and chin and forehead. 

Sweaty, sticky, this they may be, but Furiosa feels cleaner than she has in years.

**Author's Note:**

> More MMFR mayhem at [my tumblr](http://fadagaski.tumblr.com/)! Come prompt me!


End file.
